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I know where the purple clover grows.
I walk past it every day:

where the milkweed rises
and the cattails sway;
where monarchs alight
and the field mice play,

I know where the purple clover grows.

It is there I lay my memory,
my goodbyes and hellos,
my wants and wayward wishes,
my invisible cargos.

It is there I whisper to the wind
the stories that are true
and offer up my love songs
in nature’s rendezvous.

It is there the purple clover,
wild and sublime,
takes off my wearied mantle
and removes the pound of time

so I can look without filter
and see without haze
the child i may have been back then
and the woman who was raised –

the loves that live inside,
and the lives I leave behind,
some, who live beside me now,
some, phantoms in my mind –

and there, you all,
and parts of me
do mingle in the grove –
our yesterdays remembered,
our tomorrows, new betrothed.

 

I know where the purple clover grows.

I walk past it every day,

every day.

 

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